


Too Much - Never Enough

by Owlbee



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ambiguous Character Death, BAMF Prompto Argentum, Drabble Collection, Everyone loves Prompto, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mild Gore, Mild Sexual Content, Mischief, OT4, Poor Prompto, Prompto Proves Himself, So far non-explicit, This is a very lazy title?, and everyone is like daaaamn, as in, did it happen?, he's the best boy, kmeme fill, oh well?, you love him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-23 15:13:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13192779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlbee/pseuds/Owlbee
Summary: A set of completely self-indulgent one shots because I love these guys. Mostly Prompto-centric, 'cause that lil dude is my JAM.





	1. Beware the Jabberwock, my son

**Author's Note:**

> Good day, fellow FFXV fans! You know how that famous quote goes? "Write the content you'd like to read?" And I'm totally paraphrasing to fit my narrative? Yeah. Turns out FFXV has usurped FFIX from it's comfortable, nigh-on 20-year position at the top of my Final Fantasy All-Time Favourites list. And Prompto? Oh man, I've never related to one character more. The weight-loss, the feeling that he's never quite good enough, the desperation to hang on to the people he loves at whatever cost? Yes. Now THAT is one hell of a well-developed character. I won't say any more for fear of spoilers, but I love that little dude with all my heart. So, it's time to torture the poor guy, because that's how we show our love!
> 
> This fic was born when I tore my rotator cuff (let's just say an ill-advised clapping push-up was involved), and was grumpily going through Costlemark for the second time. I wanted to explore a life or death situation without the convenience of Potions, but I went too far and had to Deus Ex Machina my way out. Enjoy! Depending on how this is received, I may take requests.

"Hey, Blondie!"

Noct's voice was a gritty rasp, his breath coming in great gasps that looked as painful as they sounded as he rested momentarily on the hilt of his blade. His face was drained of any colour and his arms were trembling violently; a tell-tale sign of magical over-expenditure. Prompto couldn't fault him; they'd been lost in the endless bowels of Costlemark Tower for nineteen sleepless hours, and counting.

' _Tower my_ ass,' he'd grumbled to himself fourteen glowing cube-rides earlier. ' _What kind've a tower starts_ below _the damn ground_?'

It wasn't as though the Crownsguard were faring any better than the King they'd sworn to protect, either. They had run out of potions some three life-or-death battles before they'd reached the giant dragon currently delivering them a sound beating, and they were all bearing injuries with varying degrees of severity. Ignis was nursing a painful burn that spread from his cheek to his eyebrow, dangerously close to his left eye, after a close encounter with a Red Giant's flaming sword (Prompto had congratulated him on his mad limbo skills as Ignis was cooling the burn with one of their remaining flasks of water. The compliment was ill-received, although the sexual positions Ignis had invited him to go and try sounded pretty interesting in that cultured voice. Painful, but interesting.) Gladio, whilst being strong as a bear and twice as handsome (his words), was not the fastest nor the most flexible member of their quartet, and was currently bulling his way over to shield Noct despite a twisted knee he'd gotten avoiding a Nagarini's fanged kiss.

Prompto himself hadn't fared too badly (cuts and scrapes and a badly bruised ass cheek from a Flan who'd gotten a little too slap-happy and he _didn't want to talk about it_ , thank you very much), but he felt that same dragging exhaustion weighing him down as he responded blearily to Noct's call.

"Uh, that's me, I guess?"

It was fairly obvious as to what Noct was driving at. Their combined assault had disabled the back legs of the giant beast, and it was writhing on the ground with stunned ferocity. Despite the fact that its lethal claws were throwing up sparks as they repeatedly gouged the stone slabs beneath it, Prompto couldn't help but feel a little sorry for it. One of Ignis' daggers had impaled the dragon's lower jaw (that guy had _balls_ ), and it seemed unable to lift its head. A quick shot to its armour-plated skull would be a mercy as well as a victory.

The only weapon strong enough to pierce said skull was duly summoned from Noct's arsenal, immediately weighing down Prompto's arms and making his sore muscles sing. He'd been tinkering with the Auto-Crossbow during camp downtime, and had rigged the Niflheim machinery to overload its own circuitry and misfire on command, causing a devastating shockwave that had earlier torn one of those creepy samurai daemons into two twitchy, disgustingly goopy halves. The kickback was hell, he reflected as he rolled his right shoulder with an unhappy wince, but the others were relying on the scrawny blond nobody scraped up from the proverbial gutters to get the job done. The thought spurred Prompto into action, and he dived forward with a yell of exertion.

Two things immediately went wrong.

As he readied the shot and heard the familiar whine of over-heated machinery, Prompto realised that the weapon, instead of sitting neatly atop his shoulder, was resting against the stark curve of his collarbone. He couldn't lift it any higher.

And the dragon was not as immobile as he'd thought.

In the scant seconds between landing and firing, the dragon reared its head, inadvertently sinking a lower fang into Prompto's shin and changing the trajectory of the shot from the vulnerable spot between its eyes to a giant eye itself. Unable to readjust and distracted by the _tooth in his leg, oh Gods that_ hurts, _oh shit_ , Prompto fired.

Compared to the fiery pain in his leg, it felt like nothing at first. A jerk, a crunch barely audible over the appalling shrieks of the dragon as its eyeball exploded and the ringing in his own ears. Prompto was distantly aware of the Auto-Crossbow dematerialising into crystalline fragments and a strange sensation in his right arm that somehow felt like static from a busted radio. He had time to think _ew, eye-jelly_ before the dragon whipped its head to the left, ripping the fang out of the gunner's leg and sending him back-first into the circular wall.

The speed with which the pre-emptive victory whoops of his companions turned to shouts of horror would have been funny if he hadn't been silently offering up the most creatively blasphemous curses he could think of to the Astrals. He'd thought the leg was painful? The splintered agony in his shoulder, chest and back (oh fuck damn _Ifrit's chargrilled flaming DICK_ ) robbed Prompto of the ability to move or make any sound other than few gasping barks of pain that were punched from his lungs.

 _Just pass out, you moron_ , he thought to himself as giant black spots bloomed at the peripherals of his vision. _Just pass out, it'll all stop, you_ —

Except that he _couldn't_ pass out, because there was a dragon tap-dancing its death throes next to his _face_ and Noctis was yelling and something big and warm caught him around the waist and _rolled_ and oh Six, that unlocked the scream trapped in Prompto's chest. It was a gasping, pitiful thing; a keen more than a scream, but the rolling stopped. Instead, something heavy and pliant settled itself over him, squeezing out a mist of blood and breath from his mouth that he could barely afford to lose.

Prompto had a split-second to recognise the body on top of him ( _no one can crush me like you, big guy_ ) before Gladio braced his own forearms against Prompto's ears and leaned down to rest their foreheads together. He shouted something that was muffled though his arms and Prompto's own heartbeat in his ears, then somehow squeezed him closer as the dragon crashed through the stone barrier at their sides and finally lay still.

* * *

The kid, as Gladio himself had personally verified on numerous intimate occasions, had _balls_. Sure, he was kinda scrawny, a lot clumsy, and had the maddening tendency not to just _listen_ to Gladio, Noct and Iggy when they tell him just how gorgeous he is, but _damn_. Two words from Noctis, and Prompto was in the air with a sweet-ass battle cry, ready to blow that Six-damned monster's head off. If they all hadn't been running on fumes by that point, he'd be popping some major adrenaline-wood. As it was, he contended himself by roaring encouragement alongside Noct and Ignis as Prompto lined up his shot with practised ease.

The first indication that something had gone majorly fucking _wrong_ was the change in Noctis' tone. Instead of encouragement, his Royal Sleepiness was crying out in something that sounded like fear, and that, coupled with Iggy's strangled gasp, was so outside of the norm that it had to have spelled disaster. Gladio's own throat burned from the warning ( _too late, far too late_ ) he barely realised he was yelling as the dragon's fang pierced Prompto's left leg.

The next few moments seemed to happen in slow motion. The gunner slipped, altering his trajectory just as the machine fired a devastating blast into the dragon's eye. The impact of the heavy weapon against Prompto's body made Ignis cry out the blond's name in a panic, and Gladio was moving, desperate to jump in and shield the kid before the inevitable happened.

The first step shot a bolt of fire up his thigh from his injured knee, and the resulting stumble had him missing Prompto by scant inches as he was flung into the wall with a terribly final-sounding _crack_. Gladio could see with stunning clarity the dazed expression just morphing into pain on the kid's face, the way his right arm twisted the wrong way at the shoulder. He could hear Prompto's choked gasps even over the monster's grating shrieks. Stuffing the pain of his own injuries into the farthest corner of his mind as he had been taught, Gladio threw himself at the youngest member of their group. Scrunching his eyes shut and silently praying that he wasn't about to kill the poor kid, he rolled the two of them out of the immediate range of the thrashing beast.

A thin, high whine caused Gladio to snap his eyes open as they settled, just in time to receive a fine spray of red droplets to the face. He had a split-second in which his heart lurched ( _kid's bleeding inside, oh_ shit) before he managed to alleviate some of his own weight by leaning on his forearms in a protective arch. The sound of Ignis' fearful yelling (and really, it had to be bad if _Ignis_ was scared) sheared into his consciousness from worlds away.

"—his chest, Gladio, watch his _chest_!"

"I'm _trying_!" he bellowed back, horrified when the shout so close to Prompto's face elicited no reaction. An earth-shaking _thud_ shocked him into curling even closer, wrapping the kid up tighter in his arms until his hands were buried in dishevelled blond hair, then all was silent.

* * *

Noctis lunged forward ineffectually, his body responding to his attempt to warp forward and snatch Prompto from the air with an emphatic _hell no_. Instead, all he managed was a sharp cry of his lover's name before Ignis wrapped a steadying arm around his middle. His grip was far too tight.

Noctis barely noticed.

His knees weakened further when Gladio steamrollered the blond out of immediate danger, then locked tight again when Ignis suddenly yelled out next to his ear.

"Watch his chest, Gladio, watch his _chest_!"

Noctis didn't hear the Shield's reply over the monster's final face-plant into the ground, and scarcely waited for the dust to settle before lurching over to the pair with Ignis' help. His Advisor threw them both to the ground, leaving Noctis to secure himself as Ignis shoved at Gladio's tattooed shoulder.

" _OFF_."

Ignis' voice was steadier now, but Noctis could see the fine tremor making his movements uncharacteristically graceless as he dived down to cup Prompto's face in gloved hands. Now that the chamber was quiet, small sounds began to filter into Noctis' stricken consciousness; a strained, broken wheeze that was Prompto trying to breathe, and the soft, sporadic _chink_ of his gloves and bracelets scraping across the stone floor as he shook hard. The scraping noises stopped as Gladio and Noctis simultaneously grabbed a hand each; synchronised as usual. Noctis spared a tiny smile for his Shield, which immediately fell as Ignis began to speak.

"Prompto, look at me. Look at me, darling, that's it." Prompto rolled his eyes towards that voice, familiar in its low, soothing cadence, and continued to shudder violently. Noctis tightened his grip.

"I need to see what you've done to yourself," Ignis said, stroking his thumbs lightly along Prompto's freckled cheekbones. "What a mess you are. Haven't I been telling you that theatrics have no place in battle?"

It was heart breaking to hear Ignis try to maintain a tone of gently scolding normalcy; more so to see Prompto attempt to play along with a dazed grin that spilled a thick line of deep red from the corner of his mouth to soak into Ignis' glove. Noctis stifled a sob against the hand he had pulled up to his face, and felt Prom's fingers clumsily stroking his nose in an attempt to comfort him. The Prince choked on a snort, and pressed frantic kisses against his lover's knuckles.

Ignis was talking again, explaining his actions as he performed them and answering for himself the questions that the blond was physically unable to respond to.

"I'm sorry, Prompto, I'm going to need to cut your shirt, is that alright? Yes, I know it's your favourite, though Astrals only know why. And…there. Oh. Oh my. Alright, it's alright, darling. Quiet, Highness, I need to concentrate."

Noctis snapped his mouth closed and looked at the concave ruin that was the right side of his best friend's chest. Gladio, immune to the sight of gore outside of people he cared about, had his eyes squeezed shut. Ignis was still helplessly talking.

"Prompto, can you hear me? Blink once…good boy. You're going to be absolutely fine. No, love, don't close your eyes. Prom. Don't close your—there we go. That was rather a long blink, wasn't it? You cheeky sod. Prom? Prompt—oh bollocks. GLADIO!"

Gladio sprang forward, only to hover helplessly as Prompto's body thrashed in a violent convulsion. Noctis' gaze flickered between his three lovers; Prompto, caught in a vicious seizure; Gladio, biting his lip with panic on his face; Ignis, fury making his eyes almost luminescent.

"Hold him _down_ , Gladio!"

The Shield responded with a voice scraped from the bottom of his lungs.

"I…I can't—where the FUCK am I supposed to touch him, Ignis?!"

"Just…just stop him hurting himself while I hold his head!"

" _Hurting_ himself?! The kid's beat to shit!"

The sound of grinding teeth.

"If you'd rather he die-"

The sound of a fist slamming into stone.

"You lousy son of a-"

The sound of Prompto _dying_.

"STOP!"

Abrupt, absolute silence. Noctis cleared his throat as the attention of two of his retinue snapped immediately to him.

And immediately choked as he registered what _absolute silence_ actually meant.

" _Prompto_!" he cried, crouching low over his best friend and immediately recoiling when his eyes made sense of what now lay before him.

* * *

Ignis startled slightly as His Highness' voice rumbled over them, easily dwarfing the sounds of he and Gladio's nonsensical quarrel. Shame washed through him at such a useless display, manifesting physically as slight dusting of red over his cheeks. What were they _doing_ , fighting when Prompto was—

Reminded of the screeching alarm bells in the back of his mind, Ignis barely noticed Noctis reeling back as he focused once more on the still head laying heavy in his lap.

Wait.

Still…?

 _Oh, please no_.

Ignis braced himself for the worst as he looked down, and choked. Prompto's eyes were half-closed, and blank. There was blood on his chin. The seizure had died down to a minute tremor in his hands and feet, and his chest was hitching unevenly. Slow. Slower. He was cold.

_He's going. We've lost him._

It was almost insulting. They had made it through innumerable battles in this…this _piss-bollocking_ Tower. Not one hour ago, Prompto and Noctis had been earnestly entreating Ignis to let them buy sweets at a nearby Outpost. Gladio had made an inappropriately enticing comment about how he'd 'give them all the candy they wanted'. Noctis had thrown a weak fire spell at his head, and Prompto had laughed so hard at Gladio bemoaning his singed eyebrows that he'd sagged into Ignis, warm and safe and _happy_.

It was impossible to reconcile that Prompto with the young man dying on his lap, and it was at that realisation that Ignis did something he'd never done before.

He gave up.

Ignoring the desperate, foolish hope of his companions, he gently lifted Prompto into his arms and settled him against his chest, and his shirt was already filthy, but it could have been cleaned, but now it's ruined and _focus, you fool, you've got a few more minutes at best_. He wanted to make sure that Prompto was comfortable and loved in his last minutes ( _what are you DOING, there has to be something you can do, there's nothing, nothing you can do, oh how I loved you_ ), but the movement caused a flicker of discomfort and a small sound. Prompto's brow creased, then smoothed out as Ignis pressed his lips to the blond's forehead.

"Hush now, love, hush. Don't be frightened. You were magnificent."

Ignis drew a shallow, hitching breath.

"You can let go, my darling. It's almost ov-"

"What the _fuck_ are you saying, Ignis?!"

Ignis startled and jostled the precious boy in his lap, provoking a short whine. He tore his eyes from Prompto and met Gladio's furious expression with all the empathy he could muster.

"Gladio-"

"Don't you 'Gladio' me! What kinda shit was that? You're tellin' me you're gonna give up on him? On _Prompto_?!"

"Gladio, I-"

"No, I don't wanna hear it. You need to quit this weepy goodbye _bullshit_ and fix the kid. Now!"

"Gladiolus."

"Fix. This. Ignis!"

" _Listen to me_ , you overgrown brute. We cannot move him. We have no curatives. Even if we _did_ , they would be useless because most of his Six-damned ribs are out of alignment and they would stay _embedded in his lung_. I am trying to make his last moments as peaceful as possible because there is _NOTHING ELSE I CAN DO_!"

Those last, broken words seemed to stun the whole room into silence. The only sounds were the roaring of Ignis' blood in his own ears and the faint gasping of the body in his arms. Until—

"Fuck that."

Ignis looked sharply at Gladio, but the larger man's gaze had whipped to the side. Following it, the advisor came face-to-face with his enraged King. Noctis' eyes, though still weeping, were lit with a pinkish glow, and fury transformed his boyish face into something truly regal.

It was…alarming, to say the least.

"Give him to me, Ignis."

Still rigid with shock, Ignis found that he couldn't obey. Noctis growled, and knocked his advisor's arm out of the way.

"Hold him still, then."

With that, the King laid his hands upon the gunner, and closed his eyes. To the amazement of his conscious retainers, a brilliant glow settled around his hands, then sank slowly into Prompto's chest. They were aware that Noctis had the ability to provide a quick pick-me-up in battle; they all shared that ability through their link to his powers. Never before, though, had they seen it used outside of battle and when Noctis' magic was so severely depleted. Ignis and Gladio watched, spellbound, as the obvious deformity of Prompto's ruined chest slowly became…less obvious. The gunner's body shuddered with the sensation of ribs moving back into alignment, and Ignis gripped him tightly, praying, _hoping_ …

His heart leaped in his chest when Prompto suddenly gasped, and his eyelids fluttered. Simultaneously, Gladio lunged forward and broke the connection with Noctis. Their Royal Majesty blinked, and his face crumpled into a sob.

"Please tell me it worked," he whimpered, and fainted into Gladio's waiting arms.

* * *

Voices.

Anger, fear, grief.

Movement.

It jolts, jerks, grinds splintered bone into flesh.

_Pain. PainpainPAIN please stop it stop it HURTS._

Someone is talking. Their voice should be smooth, rich, soothing.

It's not.

Dizzy. Can't see.

Someone is talking. Their voice should be rough, brave, loving.

It's not.

Movement again.

_Please, it hurts. Don't touch me. You're warm. I love you. Let me sleep._

Fading.

It's nice. Like a blanket.

Someone. Someone is…talking? Their voice should be lazy, warm, amazing.

It's…

It's going.

_Don't go. I don't want to go. Let me go._

_I'm—_

The pain slammed back into Prompto's freshly awakened awareness, and it felt like being hit by a train. Something _burned_ , like a thousand angry wasps were swarming inside his veins. He screamed at the wasps to stop, for someone to help, for his lovers to step in and save him from being eaten alive, but he wasn't screaming _loud_ enough; he was at the bottom of a well and there were things looking at him from the top and their eyes were needles and he was strapped down _stop stop STOP_.

It stopped. Everything was dark and hot and pulsing with pain, but the wasps were gone and Prompto could _breathe_. He gulped down a breath of musty dungeon air and almost swooned at how sweet it tasted. He gasped again, and sounds began to sift through the ringing in his ears. There seemed to be some kind of commotion above him. Someone was crying.

_Noct!_

It took almost everything Prompto had left to pry his eyes open, but Noct was crying, and nothing was allowed to make his best friend sad. Official Crownsguard rules, and a crucial part of the Best Friend code to boot. Prompto would've climbed out of his _grave_ to make sure Noctis was happy.

(He had no idea how close that was to the truth.)

Instead of seeing Noct in distress, he was greeted by a pair of moss-green eyes covered by a film of watery tears. And glasses.

Wait a minute, _Ignis_ was crying?! Holy shit, something bad must've gone down. Prompto pushed himself up, but found himself moving a scant two inches before his body protested the movement violently. A coppery taste flooded his mouth as blackness ate across his vision, and he was fairly sure _breathing_ wasn't supposed to involve quite so much full-body contortion. Eventually, the tide receded a little, helped along by something unbelievably soft stroking his mouth and chin. Prompto wondered if he'd fallen asleep curled up with his chocobo again, whether it was Starburst's reddish-orange feathers tickling his face. He couldn't open his eyes; they'd been glued shut or something, but that was fine. He could still hear.

"…you're alright, dear heart. Let's get you cleaned up, then we'll get out of this bloody hellhole. You can sleep a little now. You'll be alright."

Prompto didn't really want to get cleaned by a chocobo – in his experience, it involved a hell of a lot more beak than strictly necessary. He groped about with his working hand until he found something warm and solid, and patted it feebly.

"S'ok, Star, 'm alright. Don' peck me."

Someone gripped his hand hard, and Prompto fell into soft darkness with the sounds of two sets of voices stifling hysterical laughter to keep him company.

* * *

Try as he might, Gladio couldn't help getting caught up in the wave of somewhat maniacal chuckling that followed Prompto's heartfelt reassurance. He tried not to jostle the sleeping Prince cradled in his arms as he stuffed bloodstained knuckles in his mouth to stop the bubble of hysteria waking his unconscious charges. Astrals knew they could use the damn sleep.

A small choking noise drew his attention to Ignis, who was laughing and wiping a hand over his face simultaneously. Gladio felt a combination of relief and affection settle heavily in his chest as the advisor brought his stained handkerchief back down to the bloodstains around Prompto's mouth, still giggling faintly.

"Ooh, Prompto," Ignis said on an exhale. "You really do keep me on my toes, love."

The incongruity of that statement after the sheer fucking _terror_ of the last hour had both of the older men stifling snickers again, which were only spurred on by Noctis rousing himself just enough to frown and smack Gladio in the eye. Eventually the shudders and muffled gasps calmed down enough for the Shield to look the Advisor in the eye.

"Wanna blow this shithole?"

Ignis huffed. "As distastefully as that was put, yes I do. Are you alright to carry Noctis?"

"You gonna get Prom?"

Carefully, Ignis gathered Prompto into his arms, tucking the kid's head gently under his chin, and stood. Gladio whistled his appreciation. He was lucky enough to know what Iggy was packing under that stuffy suit.

"Don't look at me like that, you insatiable behemoth, he barely weighs a scrap. Pick up Noctis and let's get out of this bloody place."

Gladio complied.

* * *

Warm. Warm, cosy, and with the kind of heavy contentment that came from snuggling in a giant pile of blankets and his boyfriends, no matter how much Gladio tried to complain and stuff Noct in his armpit. His Shield was totally a secret snuggler. Ignis was much the same; he tried to protest that he had too much work to do to submit to the Royal Octopus, but Noctis knew that once the advisor was pulled in, he would spread out with the lithe, lazy grace of a big cat, and nothing short of a daemon attack (or a saucepan boiling over) could dislodge him. Noct snuffled happily into the nearest warm body. The nostalgia factor was sending him back to sleep nicely.

Speaking of, part of the cosy 'It's Cold and I have Nothing Urgent I Need to be Doing' lethargy could be attributed to the quiet buzz of Ignis and Gladio's voices somewhere overhead. It reminded him of those satisfying days at home in the middle of winter, when none of them had any pressing business, and Iggy would make hot chocolate, and Gladio would read out loud, and he and Prom would—

Wait.

Noct's brow furrowed as a deep spike of anxiety settled into his stomach. There was something wrong; he didn't remember setting up camp, and he certainly didn't remember a cuddle party, and _my head hurts, why does my head hurt, what's that smell, it smells like medicine, did I get hurt?_

_No._

_That's not right, I didn't get hurt, it's not me, it was_ —

"Prompto!"

Noctis was halfway to standing before he'd even realised he'd moved. Casting his gaze frantically over the interior of the tent ( _how did we get to the tent_?!), his eyes fell upon Ignis, shaking droplets of tea off of his hand with a grimace, and Gladio, surging forward to capture Noct by the shoulders and sit him back down.

"Easy, Princess, take it easy."

"Get _off_ me! Where's Prompto?!" There were little twinkling flashes in his vision, and he was panting hard. Struggling against his very own man-mountain, though fun in the right circumstances, was pretty near pointless. If Gladio didn't want to be moved, he wasn't gonna be moved.

"Calm down!"

Noct's struggles intensified. "Where's _Prompto_?!"

"Fuckin' _hell_ kid, he's-"

"Is he okay?!"

"Well, you're currently kickin' six shades of shit out of him, but other than that…"

Noctis stopped struggling and hung limply in Gladio's arms. He looked blankly around for his best friend until a quiet throat-clearing from Ignis drew his attention. The advisor had curled protectively around what he first mistook to be a bundle of blankets, and was giving him a gently admonishing look. Noct licked his lips and spoke hesitantly.

"Is…is he alright?"

Ignis' stern expression cracked into one of weary fondness. "He's alright, Noct. You only jostled him a bit; Gladio's exaggerating," he turned a glare on the Shield, "As usual. Prompto will be fine. We got you both back to the Haven, and Gladio drove to the Outpost to restock our curatives. I've given him a few potions, and Gladio managed to get an ether into you-"

"Which you did _not_ want to take, you little piranha."

Noctis inspected the fading bite-mark on Gladio's hand with no small amount of satisfaction. "Nice."

"Didn't _feel_ nice, you-"

"— _as I was saying_ , Prompto will be fine. I've bound up his shoulder and his ribs; we're just waiting for the potions to finish working. He'll sleep a while longer, I should think."

There was a lump in his throat that made it hard to speak, but Noctis tried anyway. "Sorry…sorry I spilled your tea, Iggy. It didn't burn you both, did it?"

For some reason, Ignis' eyes were wet. Or was that his own eyes? He tried focusing on the tufts of blond hair sticking out of the blanket cocoon on Iggy's lap, but that just made it worse.

"It was lukewarm at best, Highness." The advisor followed Noct's gaze and swallowed loudly. "Oh, come here, you silly buggers."

Noctis scrambled forward as quickly as his exhausted body would allow, with Gladio close behind him. They curled themselves gently around Ignis and the sleeping Prompto, and if Noctis wept a few tears into that soft blond hair, well. It didn't matter.

The others were totally crying too.


	2. The Only Me is Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a fill for the first FFXV Kink Meme that I didn't finish at the time, and subsequently lost in the flood of all the other submissions. Anon, if you're out there, this is for you! Anon requested an FFXV/Silent Hills - PT crossover, and good goddamn, was that up my alley! Warnings for horror, temporary main character death, and 'character' death (it's up to you to decide whether it's real or not, but I did put in some hints as to my intention!).

The first time Noctis realised that he’d already passed the rusted metal stack of crates – notable due to their fleeting resemblance to a daemon crouching in the dark - he passed it off as simply taking a wrong turn. The Keep was a fucking labyrinth, apparently designed by ants, or termites, or some other scrabbling insect used to scurrying through dark tunnels.

It was an easy mistake to make. He turned and sprinted back towards the soft green light of the door he’d come in through.

The second time he passed by the crates, Noctis made the time to give himself a stern talking to. Though his heart thumped with sickly fear for Prompto, for Gladio and Ignis, getting turned around twice in a row because he clearly couldn’t think straight was unacceptable. He wished Ignis, with his cool head, and Gladio, with his lack of patience for any nonsense, were with him. By separating him from the two eldest members of his retinue, Ardyn may as well have ripped off two of his limbs.

By taking Prompto, it was as though he’d ripped out his heart.

He turned and ran back towards the soft green light of the door he’d come in through.

The third time he’d been given one hell of a jump scare by that _fucking stack of crates_ , Noctis began to feel as though something was very wrong. It wasn’t just the fact that he was now sure that this was the same damned corridor that he’d already been through multiple times. No, there was an atmosphere here; something old and strange that he couldn’t quite—

Silence.

This place was completely silent. All throughout the Keep Noctis had been driven half mad by the unearthly wailing of daemons, the shriek of metal against metal, and the low, constant hum of long-dead machinery brought to life. Ardyn’s occasional loathsome commentary was the only thing resembling a human voice he’d heard in days, and even the Chancellor seemed to be keeping his vile mouth shut. Was it possible he’d…slipped into some endless corridor, alternate-dimension bullshit? Noctis scoffed to himself without humour. Though it sounded like some lame-ass joke Prompto would make upon discovering his Prince rising earlier than noon (and _Gods_ , how he wished to hear that stupid joke again), he wouldn’t put it beyond Ardyn to slow his mission like this. It felt stupid, but he needed to test the theory.

He turned and walked back towards the soft green light of the door he’d come in through.

* * *

 

By the eighth circuit, Noctis wanted to tear out his own hair. He was panting hard, drained of energy and laboured by a sense of unease that clung to his grimy skin. Running through the hallway was accomplishing nothing. He came through the door, turned left, passed a dormitory boasting a single usable bunk, turned right, and there were the crates. Twenty feet beyond them was a rack of rusted piping with a goddamn _bathroom sink_ placed incongruously in the middle. For some reason, the sight of that sink set into a wall of pipes in a hallway within a massive industrial prison made Noctis feel as though the skin on his neck was crawling steadily south to the backs of his knees. He’d not yet ventured close.

Noctis _did not want_ to go near the sink.

“What if that’s the way out, you wuss?” His own voice, though muffled by the dusty silence, startled him. It seemed to carry echoes of his missing friends; Ignis’ rationality, Gladio’s brusque encouragement, and Prompto’s gentle teasing. Noctis liked that. He wanted to hear them again, so he carried on talking as he edged forward.

“What if there’s a secret door, huh? You remember how disappointed Prompto was when you told him there were no hidden doors in the Citadel? Maybe you just have to find the secret door and it’ll take you straight to Prom--”

His voice trailed off when he was five feet away from the pipes. A faint sound, audible even over his own rambling ( _was I just_ talking _to myself_?) had caught his attention. Noctis leaned closer, eyes fixed on a single rust spot on one of the pipes so as to avoid looking into the sink. There was a foul smell filling his nose from below him; sweet, heavy, more foetid than even the worst of Gladio’s infamous dutch-ovens. The air felt clammy.

_It’s just a backed-up drain_ , he told himself firmly. _I don’t have to look. I’m not gonna look_.

Just as he felt his gaze being drawn irresistibly downwards, the sound came again. Now that he wasn’t talking aloud, it was easily identifiable.

Someone was crying. Behind the pipes. Weeping really, in a desperate, broken way that left them gasping two or three times before the sobbing started afresh. The hacking moans pierced Noctis’ chest with painful empathy, and he found himself gripping cold metal in an attempt to get closer.

“Hey. Hey, I’m here. Are you okay? Are you trapped?”

The wailing got louder. The voice didn’t really sound familiar – Noctis couldn’t even tell if it was male or female – but he was struck with a thought that filled him with a mixture of breathless hope and terrible fear.

“…Prom? Prompt--”

The crying switched off mid-wail, and was replaced by discordant static so loud it made Noctis clap his hands to his ears in agony. He collapsed to his knees, gripping his hair, and heard a voice through the white noise that made his gut clench.

“Come now, Noct. We’re just getting started!”

_Ardyn_.

“This is my little game. If you want to win, all you have to do is…look behind you.”

Noctis could see a shadow on the pipes. It was twitching. A creaking whine gusted over his head, as though someone was trying to talk through a crushed larynx.

“Oh, how you do like to misbehave. I _said_ , look behind you.”

Noctis found he didn’t have much say in the matter. A pair of gloved hands seized his head and twisted sharply. The momentary pain of his splintered spine faded along with his vision, but not before he had a split-second glimpse of the thing behind him.

Black veins. Red pupils. Grey, sloughing skin.

Blond hair.

* * *

 

There was something on his face.

Awareness returned quickly, and Noctis lurched into a sitting position, struggling madly against the scratchy grey blanket that covered him like a shroud. Finally free, he hunched over on himself as his heart crashed wildly in his chest. Was that a nightmare? If so, it was the worst he’d ever experienced.

He took a moment to look around at the shadowy, lifeless dorm room. Noctis didn’t remember being in here. He didn’t remember falling asleep. None of what he was seeing felt quite real; as though there was a thin, greasy film over reality that had seeped into his consciousness, blunting everything but the residual phantom pain of his broken neck. Stroking a trembling hand over his throat, he took a breath. The air was sour and dead.

_Beep._

Noctis’ slowly calming heartrate spiked violently at the functional sound of the dormitory door opening with a hiss. His eyes strained through the solid darkness, and he caught a flicker of movement.

A blur of yellow.

_Prompto!_

A blink, and he was standing outside the dorm, panting hard and looking for his best friend. His belly clenched hard in despair as he realised that, not only was there no Prompto, but this was the same damn corridor that he’d wandered for hours already.

_Not a dream then, I guess._

It hadn’t changed much. The only difference was the darkness obscuring the pipes at the end, as if he needed further persuasion not to go down there. The static was louder too, and if he listened hard, there was a voice underneath. Not Ardyn this time, but a bland, almost mechanical voice intoning the same speech over and over.

_“The infected aren’t disappearing – they’re turning into daemons. That we failed to see this defies belief. Yet, dwelling on it avails us naught in the face of the daemon threat. Though of human origin, they’re unlike the specimens bred for MTs. They cannot be controlled._ You can’t trust the tap water.”

The last sentence was delivered in a completely different tone; almost jovial, inviting Noctis to share a secret. It was so unexpected, he almost laughed, before he realised the connection between ‘tap water’ and the sink hidden in the nest of pipes he’d ( _died_ ) been standing in front of before he’d ( _died_ ) woken up.

Was that a warning not to go near the pipes?

“Not gonna be a problem, buddy,” he chuckled, and then jumped when the voice started playing again.

_“…aren’t disappearing…”_

He tried going in the other direction.

_“…turning into daemons.”_

None of the doors would open. Not even the dorm he’d just left.

_“The infected…”_

What was _with_ this fucking place?

_“…into daemons.”_

He was revising his decision to take Ardyn out as quickly as possible. He was gonna make it _slow_.

_“…in the face of the daemon threat…”_

The crying was back. Low and mournful at first, but it grew in intensity when Noctis turned the corner to the stretch of corridor that held the pipes.

_“…of human origin...”_

There was someone blocking the way.

_“They cannot be controlled.”_

The stance was off, but…

_“They cannot be controlled.”_

…he’d know that person anywhere.

_“They cannot be controlled.”_

“Prompto!”

He ran forward.

 

* * *

 

Noctis sat up, violently dislodging the scratchy grey blanket from his face as his hands flew once again to his neck. This time, a storm of tears overtook him, and he wept into his arms for what might have been days.

That wasn’t Prompto. It couldn’t have been his Prompto, his best friend, the guy who loved Noctis so much he’d learned how to fight with minimal training, proved he was willing to die for him whilst on the road. The guy who shouldered Noctis’ emotional burdens along with his own and never complained, only smiled and held out his arms for more. No, the grey skinned, red-eyed daemon ( _hunting_ ) haunting him wasn’t his Prompto. This time, he wouldn’t fall for it.

It wouldn’t happen again.

* * *

 

It happened three more times before he gave up.

His nerves were shot; jangling like chains, and he gave up.

Ardyn seemed pleased as he cried and begged for it to _stop, please, I can’t do this again_.

This time, the daemon came to him.

“You know what to do,” Ardyn’s voice was characteristically smooth, but there was an undercurrent of bitter hatred that put Noctis in mind of biting down on tinfoil. “Now’s the time. Do it!”

There was a knife in his hand.

_It’s not him._

His weapons were gone, but there was a knife in his hand.

_It’s not Prompto._

The daemon wearing his best friend’s face shambled closer.

_This isn’t real_.

Just as the daemon held up its hands (those dearly familiar hands, perfect down to the gun callouses on the thumb and index finger), Noctis buried the knife in its throat. It stilled, shuddering, and Noctis looked up almost involuntarily.

Its eyes were blue. Blue and innocent and totally uncomprehending. As Noctis watched, unable to tear his eyes away, his best friend blinked twice, opened his mouth and made a terrible grinding sound that could have been Noctis’ own name. Through the static haze of horror he dimly noticed the feeling of Prompto’s torn vocal cords grating against the knife in his throat, and he yanked his hand away just in time to catch his best friend as he slumped. Clutching Prompto’s waist, he bore them both to the ground, and cradled the twitching boy against his chest.

“I di…I didn’t mean…” he stuttered, shock and grief robbing him of proper speech. “I didn’t…you weren’t…it’s not _YOU_!” Noctis yowled into Prompto’s dazed face. He took a keening breath, absent-mindedly stroking the blond head resting against his collarbone. He avoided the knife, which bobbed ridiculously as Prompto tried to speak.

“Don’t—don’t speak…oh Gods, don’t speak. It’s alright, Prom, fuck…I’m so sorry. _I’m so sorry_.” He was crying, sobbing so hard it felt like he was retching. Prompto was still looking up at him, but his eyes had regained some awareness. He looked frightened, and Noctis moved the hand tangled in Prompto’s hair down to cover the hand clenched in his filthy shirt.

“Ssh, it’s alright Prom. It’s alright. It’s okay…over soon, buddy, okay? Over soon. Please. Gods, _please_ …”

As horrific as it felt to wish death on his greatest friend, Noctis couldn’t stand the sight of him suffering. He gathered Prompto closer so that the blond’s face was buried in his shoulder – _he won’t see this, I won’t let him see me do this_ – and placed one hand on his head. Pressing a kiss to Prompto’s temple, he yanked out the knife with the other hand. He flung it as far from them as the narrow corridor would allow, and held on as his best friend convulsed in his arms.

Time passed. Gradually, Noctis came back to himself, and realised that Prompto was finally, blessedly still. Judging from the stiffness of the dried blood on his shirt and his arms, his friend had been dead for a while. Noctis swallowed and grimaced at the sharp ache in his own throat, then startled as Ardyn’s voice oozed from the stale air.

“You were screaming for such a _long_ time, Highness. Really, it got a little boring.”

Rage simmered deep in Noctis’ gut, but it was smothered by grief.

“A four out of ten for that little performance, I’m afraid. A knife in the neck? Really, you killed your best friend and you couldn’t even be _original_ about the way you did it.”

Noctis closed his eyes. He wished for sleep.

“Ah well. I suppose I should keep my end of the bargain.”

_Bargain? There was a bargain?_

A loud beep, and a rush of comparatively fresh air against his face.

“Your freedom, Highness. That wasn’t so hard now, was it? Just a little game. I do so enjoy playing with new toys.”

Noctis stood. He hefted the body into his arms. The skin against his bare arms was cold, like metal. Heavy. It creaked when he moved.

He kept his gaze forward, and limped towards the harsh red light of the door he’d never been through.


	3. Theoretically...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all starts with Noctis, because Noctis is a brat.
> 
> “So, Iggy,” he says, sprawled over Gladio’s generous lap with all the lazy smugness of a cat. “Which one of us d’you love the most?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff disguised as angst, because apparently that's the mood I'm in? Warning for some suggestive lap-sitting and a cheeky squeeze.

It all starts with Noctis, because Noctis is a _brat_.

“So, Iggy,” he says, sprawled over Gladio’s generous lap with all the lazy smugness of a cat. “Which one of us d’you love the most?”

Ignis, crouching over the basin co-opted for the washing up that only one person _ever_ helps with, passes another plate to Prompto and ignores his Highness. Prompto snorts. Gladio, being either decidedly gullible or in on the whole thing, takes the bait.

“Why’re you askin’?”

Noctis smiles a self-satisfied smile, and wriggles ever so slightly in his Shield’s lap. Gladio grunts and tightens his grip. The Prince’s voice, when he speaks, has thickened to a seductive drawl.

“C’mon, Iggy. It’s gotta be me, right?”

Ignis catches Prompto’s gaze, tuts, and gets a long-suffering eye-roll in return. They’re all used to Noct’s occasional bouts of playful shit-stirring. Everyone knows he doesn’t mean to be malicious, and it’s nice to see him relaxed enough to get up to mischief. Usually, he’ll be left to talk himself into the conclusion he wants to hear.

Unfortunately, it appears that Gladio isn’t going to let it slide tonight.

“Oh yeah?” he snarls in a tone that would have anyone outside of his three lovers scampering behind the nearest tall object. “What makes you so sure _you’re_ the favourite?”

Noctis shudders when Gladio grips his inner thigh, his eyes fluttering slightly. “Because,” he gasps, “I’m his _King_. I’m like, _automatically_ the favourite.”

That stings a bit, so Ignis reluctantly opens his mouth. He doesn’t get a chance to speak his piece before Gladio presses the heel of his palm against the growing bulge in Noctis’ pants. The small jerk of his hips renders Ignis momentarily speechless, and Gladio takes the opportunity to press his lips against the Prince’s throat. His gaze zeroes in on the advisor as he speaks.

“Not the King ‘til the Coronation, babe. ‘Sides, Iggy likes his guys a little more… _rough_.”

Good grief.

“Ain’t that right, Igs? So, who’s your favourite?” Gladio prompts with a wide, complacent grin. Noctis’ eyes are locked on his Advisor, pupils blown wide and satisfaction written all over his face.

It’s infuriating. It’s insulting. It’s an unfairly good show, and they know it. Time to bring them down a peg.

“Actually, judging by the member of our little troupe who irritates me the least, I would have to choose Prompto.”

Ignis was expecting the gobsmacked silence of two bruised egos, but not the quiet _splosh_ of a clean plate falling back into the dirty dishwater at his side. He turns to find Prompto fixing him with wide, blue, Anak-in-the-headlights eyes.

“Uh-uh, Iggy, leave me out of--”

The other two find their voices simultaneously.

“You’re choosing the _peasant_ over your _King_?!”

“Well _shit_ Iggy, didn’t know you were so into _scrawny_ guys.”

The thing is, Ignis _knows_ they’re joking. He knows they exchange this kind of banter every day, and it’s shrugged off with laughs and increasingly bad puns.

However, the insults seem magnified by the tension, sexual or otherwise, hanging in the air, and Ignis can’t disguise a wince as he flicks a guilty gaze toward the youngest. Prompto’s face is suffused with colour, and not in the pretty way Ignis prefers. Noctis and Gladio are still throwing tasteless comments back and forth, and the blond’s eyebrows shoot down at the same speed as Ignis’ sinking heart.

“Prompto--” he begins, throwing his hands forward in entreaty just as the gunner lunges to his feet. There’s a fluid grace in the movement that sends a spike of panic shooting up Ignis’ spine. This is Prompto in full defense-mode; cold and sure and ready. Ignis has a momentary flashback to the last time he saw the blond so serious; a Sahagin had gripped Noctis in its jaws and _rolled_ and Prompto had shot it through the throat with zero hesitation. He and Gladio had torn the blond a new one once they had ascertained that Noctis was safe; it was a miracle the bullet hadn’t hit the Prince. Prompto had given them a frosty look that suggested that _maybe they should’ve jumped in faster, then_ , and turned with a sunshine-bright grin to tackle Noct back into the water.

There hadn’t been anything they could say to that, really.

He’s brought abruptly back to the present when Prompto silently stalks past him and into the tent. It would seem that Ignis isn’t the only member of their group struck speechless at this contained departure; Noctis and Gladio have finally shut up, a good two minutes too late.

“What’s with Prom?” Noctis says, and Ignis wants to shake him for his ignorance. He’s itching to wipe the nonplussed expression off of Gladiolus’ face. Most of all, he wants to kick himself for his own damnable part in this fiasco.

“You two are _imbeciles_ ,” he hisses instead, hoping against hope that Prompto isn’t hearing this and feeling worse. “A ‘scrawny peasant’? Is that _really_ how you want him to think you see him?”

Guilt is beginning to twist their faces, but so is the customary defensiveness of two prideful sons of the noblest houses of Lucis.

“We didn’t--”

“It was just a--”

“Oh, shut up, the both of you. That was just cruel; I don’t care if you were joking. Given what we know about Prompto’s insecurity, how did you _think_ he’d react?”

Silence.

“Shit,” Gladio says. Noctis slides off of his lap and sheepishly adjusts himself. “We’re assholes.”

“Sorry Iggy,” Noctis mutters.

“It’s not me – or not _entirely_ me – you need to apologise to. For what it’s worth, I accept your apology, your Highness.” Ignis rises gracefully to his feet, and fills the kettle. Some tea wouldn’t go amiss right now, particularly the Duscean spice blend that Prompto is so fond of. Noctis fidgets uncertainly for a moment, then squares his shoulders and marches into the tent after his best friend. Low murmuring follows; just the Prince himself to start, but Prompto’s voice hesitantly joins in after a minute or so.

Ignis cants a look at Gladio, who is picking at a hangnail (a habit that sets Ignis’ teeth on edge, and makes the Shield look like a particularly enormous child), and grants him a small smile.

“Go on,” he says. “I’ll be a moment here.”

Gladio grins back gratefully, and practically scampers to the tent, which is an endearing sight for a man so large. Ignis hears a loud _fwump_ and the indignant cries of the two youngest, probably squashed beneath the affection of the eldest, and chuckles indulgently as he pours tea into four mugs. The night has grown chilly.

He thinks the tent will be warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like me, Ignis firmly believes that all problems are made better by the judicious application of tea.

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive Ignis' paltry excuse for an Inventive British Swear™. He's under a lot of stress. Being British myself, I am deeply ashamed. Sorry if it ended abruptly; I could have gone on forever. This was a completely self-indulgent exercise in order to get a feel for writing the characters. Please, let me know how I did! I want to make a series of one-shots and small chaptered fics, so feel free to toss some ideas my way. I love Prompto, if that sways your decision...


End file.
